I was chatting with a friend over coffee, heavy subjects like what should be done about urban blight and how the job market isn’t very good for guys our age and whether the Tigers have any real shot at a pennant this year. We were dining at a Goat’s Horn Restaurant. It’s a good place to go for a late breakfast if you’re a man our age: practically every booth contains at least one retiree, if not multiple geezers (I think there’s a minimum required by local zoning ordinance), and so my buddy and I get to feel like youngsters in their midst. We were on something like our fourth cup of coffee, the plates cleared and long gone when the topic du jour meandered around to the religious affiliations of our youth.
“We used to be Presbyterian, until one summer my father and I converted over to The Church of the New Car,” my friend proudly proclaims. I’ve heard a lot of interesting stuff over the years, but this was a new one. Church of the Rising Trout, sure (my brother and I found that the presence of God was most obvious on blue ribbon trout streams), but I’d never heard a word about the Church of the New Car. This was a sect I needed to explore. I encouraged him to keep rolling with his story. Did you get a new Buick with
“We used to be Presbyterian, until one summer my father and I converted over to The Church of the New Car,” my friend proudly proclaims. I’ve heard a lot of interesting stuff over the years, but this was a new one. Church of the Rising Trout, sure (my brother and I found that the presence of God was most obvious on blue ribbon trout streams), but I’d never heard a word about the Church of the New Car. This was a sect I needed to explore. I encouraged him to keep rolling with his story. Did you get a new Buick with
membership? Who knows? Maybe I’d decide to convert.
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me this one. Where’d your congregation meet?” And so he began.
“Ever since I can remember, my family was Presbyterian, at least when I was little. My mother and father, my sister and I, most Sundays we piled into the car and went to church. We didn’t go every Sunday, but we went most of them. This was in the Seventies, remember, and everything was changing, social revolution and all that. I must have been about ten or twelve years old at the time, just a kid. People were moving, neighborhoods were in a state of flux. One summer they switched up ministers. Whoever was in charge, that is. Our old minister had been there a long time; he was alright, as far as I can remember. At least I think he was okay. But then they moved him to another parish. I don’t know why they did that, but apparently shuffling ministers around wasn’t all that uncommon. Instead we got some Korean guy for the summer. He had an extremely thick accent.”
He pauses and takes a drink from his mug, gathering the rest of the tale in his head. I give him a minute, but he’s either having trouble organizing his thoughts or he wants to make me beg for the rest of the story. My money is on the coerced begging. I refuse to beg, so a gentle prompting will have to do.
“So just like that you quit going to church? Because they gave you a minister from Korea?” There has to be more to the tale. It doesn’t sound like my friend, giving up on God over an accent, although when you’re a kid you’re pretty much relegated to doing whatever it is your parents tell you to do. Rarely do kids get to call the shots, even in matters that affect their own damnation.
“Not at first. And not because he was from Korea. Our family as a whole kept going to church for a couple of weeks after that. But then one Sunday we all got in the car and drove to service, just like usual. Only this time, once we pulled into the parking lot, my mother and my sister got out of the car. Dad didn’t flinch from behind the wheel. I started to get out, but Dad continued to just sit there, staring at the stained glass windows. I had one foot in the car and one foot on the pavement when he looked over at me and said, clear as day, stay in the car, kid. I froze. I didn’t know what was going on. Next thing you know he looks over at my mom and tells her that he isn’t going in, and I’m not either. At first she didn’t believe him. Then she realized he was serious.”
“What do you mean you’re not coming in? my mother asked him. She was angry. And right there in the parking lot, Dad let her know. He let her have it with both barrels, his frustration finally having gotten the best of him. He wasn’t mad at her, just mad at his situation. I’m not going in. I can’t understand a god-damned word he’s saying, my dad answered. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard him swear. He was referring to the new minister, of course. And you couldn’t understand him: it was like the guy wasn’t even speaking English. Apparently that’s where my father decided to draw the line, faith takes a back seat where comprehension stops. I’m not wasting another hour of my life, he told Mom. He said something, she said something. After a few more minutes of this, back and forth, my mother and sister went in for Sunday service. Without us. My father and I went to a local auto dealer where we spent the hour looking at new cars.”
“That’s wild. He didn’t think about maybe finding a different church in the same denomination? Somewhere with a better preacher? Or at least an English-speaking one? There had to be another church nearby.”
“We’d been going to that church for as long as I can remember. It was right down the street from our house. I don’t believe Dad wanted to drive to a different part of town and start in with a new group of people. I’m sure that was part of it.”
“Did your family even need a new car?” I ask, thinking maybe there was some practical reason for his father’s unexpected rebellion.
“Nope. I think Dad just decided to check out the new metal: that, and he might have been getting a little hard of hearing. It didn’t matter exactly that the new guy was Korean: it mattered that his English was bad. Dad just couldn’t understand him. And so he could no longer see any point in going to church.”
“That’s funny,” I tell him, and I mean it.
“It didn’t end there. Every Sunday that summer we’d drop Mom and Sis off at the church doors, and Dad and I would speed off to a different dealership and check out all the cars on their lot. Like clockwork. After an hour or so we’d go and pick Mom and Sis up at the curb. We did this week after week.”
“Did he ever buy a new car?” It seems as if there ought to be a new car in his story somewhere. If you looked at vehicles week after week, I’d think you’d want one even if you didn’t need one (talk about leading us into temptation). “Ever?” I ask.
“Oh hell no. Like I said, we didn’t need one. It was just something to do. Eventually the weather started changing, and we’d already seen every model car at every dealership that there was to see. Long about the start of fall Dad and I quit shopping for cars that our family didn’t need. At some point we decided to just stay home on Sundays. But the important thing was that by the end of that summer, Dad and I were no longer Presbyterian: we were founding members of the Church of the New Car. My mother and sister kept going to the Presbyterians, though,” he adds as an afterthought.
I’ve heard a lot of reasons why people join or quit any given denomination. This was uncharted territory, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I tried a different tack with my friend. “Did you ever feel like you missed out on something by not going to church?”
“Not really. It was never my thing. I’ve got to tell you, though, that was the absolute best summer of my life. Sunday Dealership Service was something I really enjoyed. Imagine the wonder of it all, for a kid that age. We checked out Mustangs and Camaros, new sedans, old trucks and everything in between. Not only that, it involved just me and Dad. We got to spend time together. And I learned more about cars than most people learn in a lifetime. There you have it,” he finished with a flourish.
I took a sip of coffee and my friend downed a drink of swill from his mug as well. After that our conversation meandered to other things, and eventually we got up, paid our bills and abandoned the Goat’s Horn.
Driving home, I was still thinking about my friend’s father: I know a lot of different people from a lot of different faiths and walks of life. My theory has always been that if something works for them and doesn’t hurt anyone else, then it’s dandy by me. I’ve never claimed to have an inside pipeline to the all-knowing and all-powerful. When it comes to the ever-after, your guess is as good as mine.
On the other hand, there has to be a little bit of divine guidance to anything that brings a father and son closer together. Was the Church of the New Car inspired by Providence, or mere practicality? I’d be hard pressed to provide the answer. Either way, I’m pretty sure they’ll never qualify for tax-exempt status. Yet for one old friend sipping coffee and swapping war stories, that summer nurtured a cherished memory that makes him smile at the mere mention of his dad. To me, that sounds like religion at its finest.
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me this one. Where’d your congregation meet?” And so he began.
“Ever since I can remember, my family was Presbyterian, at least when I was little. My mother and father, my sister and I, most Sundays we piled into the car and went to church. We didn’t go every Sunday, but we went most of them. This was in the Seventies, remember, and everything was changing, social revolution and all that. I must have been about ten or twelve years old at the time, just a kid. People were moving, neighborhoods were in a state of flux. One summer they switched up ministers. Whoever was in charge, that is. Our old minister had been there a long time; he was alright, as far as I can remember. At least I think he was okay. But then they moved him to another parish. I don’t know why they did that, but apparently shuffling ministers around wasn’t all that uncommon. Instead we got some Korean guy for the summer. He had an extremely thick accent.”
He pauses and takes a drink from his mug, gathering the rest of the tale in his head. I give him a minute, but he’s either having trouble organizing his thoughts or he wants to make me beg for the rest of the story. My money is on the coerced begging. I refuse to beg, so a gentle prompting will have to do.
“So just like that you quit going to church? Because they gave you a minister from Korea?” There has to be more to the tale. It doesn’t sound like my friend, giving up on God over an accent, although when you’re a kid you’re pretty much relegated to doing whatever it is your parents tell you to do. Rarely do kids get to call the shots, even in matters that affect their own damnation.
“Not at first. And not because he was from Korea. Our family as a whole kept going to church for a couple of weeks after that. But then one Sunday we all got in the car and drove to service, just like usual. Only this time, once we pulled into the parking lot, my mother and my sister got out of the car. Dad didn’t flinch from behind the wheel. I started to get out, but Dad continued to just sit there, staring at the stained glass windows. I had one foot in the car and one foot on the pavement when he looked over at me and said, clear as day, stay in the car, kid. I froze. I didn’t know what was going on. Next thing you know he looks over at my mom and tells her that he isn’t going in, and I’m not either. At first she didn’t believe him. Then she realized he was serious.”
“What do you mean you’re not coming in? my mother asked him. She was angry. And right there in the parking lot, Dad let her know. He let her have it with both barrels, his frustration finally having gotten the best of him. He wasn’t mad at her, just mad at his situation. I’m not going in. I can’t understand a god-damned word he’s saying, my dad answered. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard him swear. He was referring to the new minister, of course. And you couldn’t understand him: it was like the guy wasn’t even speaking English. Apparently that’s where my father decided to draw the line, faith takes a back seat where comprehension stops. I’m not wasting another hour of my life, he told Mom. He said something, she said something. After a few more minutes of this, back and forth, my mother and sister went in for Sunday service. Without us. My father and I went to a local auto dealer where we spent the hour looking at new cars.”
“That’s wild. He didn’t think about maybe finding a different church in the same denomination? Somewhere with a better preacher? Or at least an English-speaking one? There had to be another church nearby.”
“We’d been going to that church for as long as I can remember. It was right down the street from our house. I don’t believe Dad wanted to drive to a different part of town and start in with a new group of people. I’m sure that was part of it.”
“Did your family even need a new car?” I ask, thinking maybe there was some practical reason for his father’s unexpected rebellion.
“Nope. I think Dad just decided to check out the new metal: that, and he might have been getting a little hard of hearing. It didn’t matter exactly that the new guy was Korean: it mattered that his English was bad. Dad just couldn’t understand him. And so he could no longer see any point in going to church.”
“That’s funny,” I tell him, and I mean it.
“It didn’t end there. Every Sunday that summer we’d drop Mom and Sis off at the church doors, and Dad and I would speed off to a different dealership and check out all the cars on their lot. Like clockwork. After an hour or so we’d go and pick Mom and Sis up at the curb. We did this week after week.”
“Did he ever buy a new car?” It seems as if there ought to be a new car in his story somewhere. If you looked at vehicles week after week, I’d think you’d want one even if you didn’t need one (talk about leading us into temptation). “Ever?” I ask.
“Oh hell no. Like I said, we didn’t need one. It was just something to do. Eventually the weather started changing, and we’d already seen every model car at every dealership that there was to see. Long about the start of fall Dad and I quit shopping for cars that our family didn’t need. At some point we decided to just stay home on Sundays. But the important thing was that by the end of that summer, Dad and I were no longer Presbyterian: we were founding members of the Church of the New Car. My mother and sister kept going to the Presbyterians, though,” he adds as an afterthought.
I’ve heard a lot of reasons why people join or quit any given denomination. This was uncharted territory, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I tried a different tack with my friend. “Did you ever feel like you missed out on something by not going to church?”
“Not really. It was never my thing. I’ve got to tell you, though, that was the absolute best summer of my life. Sunday Dealership Service was something I really enjoyed. Imagine the wonder of it all, for a kid that age. We checked out Mustangs and Camaros, new sedans, old trucks and everything in between. Not only that, it involved just me and Dad. We got to spend time together. And I learned more about cars than most people learn in a lifetime. There you have it,” he finished with a flourish.
I took a sip of coffee and my friend downed a drink of swill from his mug as well. After that our conversation meandered to other things, and eventually we got up, paid our bills and abandoned the Goat’s Horn.
Driving home, I was still thinking about my friend’s father: I know a lot of different people from a lot of different faiths and walks of life. My theory has always been that if something works for them and doesn’t hurt anyone else, then it’s dandy by me. I’ve never claimed to have an inside pipeline to the all-knowing and all-powerful. When it comes to the ever-after, your guess is as good as mine.
On the other hand, there has to be a little bit of divine guidance to anything that brings a father and son closer together. Was the Church of the New Car inspired by Providence, or mere practicality? I’d be hard pressed to provide the answer. Either way, I’m pretty sure they’ll never qualify for tax-exempt status. Yet for one old friend sipping coffee and swapping war stories, that summer nurtured a cherished memory that makes him smile at the mere mention of his dad. To me, that sounds like religion at its finest.
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